


Old Western Tradition

by imma_redshirt



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:24:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5129183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock is bitten by a venomous snake in the middle of an away mission. Without any medical equipment and short on time, McCoy resorts to unconventional methods--methods that drive Spock nuts for days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I believe sucking the venom from a snake bite is simply old Hollywood magic, but it makes for good story plots. Also, De was in a lot of Westerns before Star Trek, so I guess it's kinda a homage to old cowboy myths. 
> 
> ...another also: I am so out of practice with writing anything at all, so forgive me for this.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

In hindsight, the entire ordeal could have been avoided if Spock had only paid closer attention to his surroundings rather than to the sweat beading on the back of Dr. McCoy's bare shoulders.

In the time since they had become separated from the away team 5.3 hours ago, they had been captured by a gang of sword wielding natives, thrown into a cage just large enough to allow them to stand toe-to-toe, left to the mercies of the planet's noon sun, and then removed from the cage only to be led to a pair of stone pedestals where they were to be tied spreadeagled and sliced open so that, according to the natives’ leader, "thine innards may be lain forth to appease our gods as they descend from the heavens above." The gods who were, apparently, giant vulture-like birds circling overhead. 

And in like so many instances, the doctor found himself unable to keep his comments to himself, and immediately insulted the leader by questioning his sanity.

In the resulting squabble, Spock was able to use the doctor's distraction by performing three nerve pinches and delivering a blow to the head of the leader, who fell dazed to the ground. Spock and McCoy were able to escape with only four of their eight captors giving chase. 

After twenty minutes of running, dodging, and engaging in short scuffles, the two Starfleet officers found themselves in the middle of the jungle they had been captured in, their pursuers nowhere in sight.

Spock carried a short blade he had taken from one of their captors, careful to keep the blade pointed away from himself and McCoy, who stood beside him, bare chested. In one of the scuffles, a snarling native had swung his sword at McCoy's chest. The blade had sliced through his blue uniform and black undershirt and left a shallow cut from shoulder to rib. Had McCoy not fallen back at the last second, the wound would have been fatal. 

Now they stood in a small clearing, the jungle canopy thick above them, allowing only a few beams of light to fall through. The air was hot and wet, the humidity levels so high that both human and Vulcan seemed to have been doused in water. 

Collapsing onto a moss covered boulder, McCoy stripped off his torn shirts, gasping for air. Spock leaned against a towering tree and breathed slow and deep. Even he had found himself struggling in the moist environment. As he caught his breath, he glanced at the doctor, who was assessing his injury with a scowl. Still breathing hard, McCoy ripped a strip of cloth from his undershirt and began to wrap it around his torso along the gash. He knotted the first bandage, then worked on tearing another strip, breath evening out. He swiped a hand across his forehead. 

"Think we lost 'em for good?"

"No," Spock said, pushing off the tree. He resisted the urge to wipe sweat away from his own forehead. "Once they have enough time to regroup, they'll be back on our trail. I believe they are intent on capturing you especially, Doctor, in retaliation of your comments against their leader."

McCoy snorted and stretched the new bandage across his chest. "I don't doubt it. Man has an ego bigger than that ridiculous sword." He rubbed his forehead again, hand coming away damp with sweat, and scowled. "Doesn't matter. We'll probably drown in his humidity before they find us, anyway!"

Muttering to himself, he arched his back to wrap the bandage around, and Spock took the opportunity to admire the doctor's shoulder blades and the beads of sweat that drifted down his skin. 

The First Officer did not often allow himself such indulgences, and for good reason. They only serve as distractions, which lead to complications.

Such as being bitten on the finger by a venomous snake.

Sharp pain burst across the tip of his index finger. Spock immediately pulled his hand away from the tree trunk he had been standing next to, and caught sight of a thin green snake coiling around a nearby limb. What he had assumed to be one of the numerous vines hanging from the canopy twisted around as if to strike again, it's finger-thin body scrunching up to launch itself. At that moment, a rock flew from behind Spock and struck near the snake's head. Rearing back, the creature hissed and slithered up the tree limb to disappear among the dark green leaves.

"Get away from there!" McCoy snapped, pulling Spock away from the tree. Spock stumbled and landed against McCoy, who struggled to keep them both upright. His fingertip throbbed and burned, and he theorized he would feel similar pain if someone had administered repetitive blows to his finger with a heavy mallet.

He leaned against the doctor and examined his finger. A minuscule fang remained embedded in his flesh and was still working its way under the surface like a bee's stinger, wiggling and digging deeper into his finger. The skin around it darkened, enflamed, and already swollen.

"Spock," McCoy grunted. He turned to let the Vulcan rest against the boulder. "Let me see."

"A fang has remained behind," Spock said, voice strained. 

McCoy pinched the bitten finger at the top joint. The tip swelled with blood and turned dark green, and still the fang worked its way in, sending pulses of fire through every nerve in his Vulcan finger. Jaw clenched, almost dizzy with pain, Spock tried to pull his hand from the doctor's clutches.

"We must find the rest of the away team to beam aboard the Enterprise for treatment--"

"No time. That fang's already stuck deep in there. Venom’s spreading.” McCoy raised Spock’s finger to eye level. “Dammit. We're taking care of this here."

Spock forced himself to breathe evenly through the pain. “You do not have your medical kit.” 

“You think we have time to find one?” McCoy tightened his grip on Spock’s finger and snatched the knife from Spock with his free hand. He met Spock’s eyes briefly. “Don’t move.”

“Doctor McCoy, I must insist--”

Before Spock could insist on anything, McCoy drew the blade across the Vulcan’s finger and pressed the bleeding digit against his lips.

In those first few milliseconds, Spock could not discern the burning pain from the sweet release of pressure on his finger or the sensation of human lips and teeth on his skin. He gasped and fell forward, hand still held high, and braced himself against the boulder under his thighs. He felt McCoy’s teeth nip hard, pinching the fresh, stinging cut. The doctor’s lips were soft around his fingertip, a clear contrast to the fire that still pulsed from his finger.

“You mustn't--”

Spock’s words were interrupted by a noise of shock when McCoy sucked hard on his finger, drawing blood and venom and pain. With another gasp, Spock used his free hand to clutch at McCoy’s arm. Without comment, McCoy moved Spock’s finger away and spit off to the side, and immediately returned to nipping and sucking the venom from Spock’s split fingertip. 

The First Officer did not advertise the sensitivity of his fingers, never spoke of it in fact, but McCoy was the CMO of the Enterprise, and most certainly knew of it, and knew what this was doing to his superior. Still, the humiliation of such reactions brought a hot flush to Spock’s cheeks.

Of course, the flush may have also been caused by the venom that had spread before McCoy had begun to suck on his finger like a desperate--

Spock breathed deep. His emotions were slipping from his control. His _thoughts_ were slipping from his control. He was taken by the intense desire to apologize to the doctor, humiliated once again, and was about to do so when McCoy nipped particularly hard.

“Doctor!” Spock gasped and tightened his grip on McCoy’s arm as the doctor spat off to the side. “You must cease this. You might swallow the venom, and we will both be in danger--”

“Know what I’m doin’,” was all McCoy said, before he once again took the Vulcan’s finger between his lips.

Spock bit his inner cheek to keep from shouting. He had noticed a significant decrease in pain around his finger, the searing burn now a sharp sting, but that same sting had now spread down his arm at an alarming rate. And in addition to the pain, McCoy’s mouth against his pained flesh brought an entirely different sensation. 

Deep breaths and clenched teeth were all Spock had against the clashing of pain and pleasure radiating from his finger. McCoy nipped, sucked, and spit, examined Spock’s finger, scowled, and sucked again. Steady surgeon's hands held Spock's finger still in a firm grip, their usual heat dulled further by the burning of the venom. Spock raised his free hand to cover McCoy's, trembling only minutely. He had never been more thankful that McCoy did not have telepathic abilities, for the thoughts that were leaking from his mind would surely drive the doctor away forever in disgust.

His own abilities were lessened at the moment, the pain of the still spreading venom and the fascinating effects of McCoy’s mouth dampening anything that Spock may have read from touching the human. He did receive fleeting thoughts of concern and desperation and something else that he was in no state to decipher. His head was heavy, breath hard to draw, and the burn had reached his elbow.

McCoy gave one last, hard suck and spit at the ground. His lips were moist, cheeks and brow slick with sweat, blue eyes burning with concern.

“Spock? Spock, sit up--”

But Spock could not. He leaned forward and collapsed in the doctor’s arms. Fire raced up his arm and shoulder and spiraled down to his pounding heart, but McCoy’s administrations had surely taken some of the intensity away. He licked his lips, finger now tingling instead of throbbing, and breathed against McCoy’s neck.

“Leonard,” he breathed, vision swimming. “You will not. Will not place yourself in danger on my behalf again.”

 _Am I understood?_ He thought, and somewhere far off he heard McCoy’s voice answer, but the words were too faint. Spock realized that McCoy’s method had not been entirely effective, and as darkness took first his vision and then his mind, he reached out to cling to the body beneath him. He felt arms encircling him before he finally fell unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a month after the first chapter, an update!

Spock didn’t know how long he’d been on the edge of consciousness. The realization itself had not been immediate, and he was only made aware of the fact when a violent tremor ran down the length of his right arm. Within seconds, the tremors developed into muscle spasms running from the tips of his fingers up to his shoulder. 

Still fighting his semi-unconscious state, Spock clenched his jaw. He promptly concluded that he had slipped into a light, unintended healing trance soon after the bite, his body’s emergency response to the spreading venom, and was therefore unable to bring himself completely out of unconsciousness without outside aid. If he did not recieve that aid soon, the trance would strengthen even against his will in order to heal his body and mind. He was also unable to control his reaction to the painful spasms, and heard himself groan through his clenched teeth and shift uncomfortably.

He felt a hard surface against his back, and soft ground beneath his thighs. He was presumably sitting back against the mossy boulder, rather than against McCoy, as he had been before passing out. Where was the doctor?

A violent spasm shook his arm. He groaned again, arm twitching at his side. Before annoyance at the inability to control his reactions could set in, he heard the sound of something moving through underbrush nearby, quick steps against the forest floor.

He stilled as best he could with a spasming arm and trained his ears on the sound. Before long, he relaxed minutely, the presence instantly familiar as it kneeled beside him.

“Relax, Spock,” McCoy’s voice said, breaking through the pain and the hold that the healing trance still had on him. “Let it pass. Don’t fight it, it’ll only get worse.”

Spock’s left hand was taken in a firm grip. As he squeezed McCoy’s fingers and tried to ride out the spasms, a memory flashed in his mind of _teeth and lips on his fingertip, pleasure and relief through the pain, sucking and nipping and Leonard’s arm beneath his hand_. Spock tensed, his arm trembling with another violent spasm, and this time there was no stopping the shame that flooded him. The sudden intrusion of the memory was possibly a product of the half formed healing trance and the venom in his veins, or an attempt of the trance itself to divert his attention from his arm and allow his muscles to relax unperturbed by his tense focus. But while falling back into unconsciousness to fully immerse himself in the memory--an action possible only because of the lowered inhibitions of his current state--may have been preferable to staying semi-conscious with the pain, it was also an unquestionably _unwise_ course of action.

He felt McCoy move closer. One of the doctor’s hands pulled itself from his tightening grip and landed against his shoulder, warm and steady and surprisingly a balm against the pain. 

“C’mon now, Spock, relax. You’re gonna be alright.”

Turning his face away, Spock breathed out slowly and worked to clear his mind.  
“There you go,” McCoy said as the spasms subsided and Spock’s arm fell limp at his side. “You’re doin’ fine. The spasms are getting less intense. Guess that Vulcan trance is good for something, hm?”

With the memory finally banished to the back of his mind, Spock turned his face towards McCoy’s presence. He twitched an eyebrow.

“You’ve had about five attacks since you passed out,” was McCoy’s answer to his silent question. The doctor pulled his other hand from Spock’s grasp, the hand on his shoulder mingling only a moment longer before also pulling away. “My guess is the venom’s trying to dissolve your muscles, or at least paralyze them. Don’t think it’s ever had to deal with anything like Vulcan muscles before, though.”

With a sigh, McCoy stood. “Who knows what would have happened if _all_ the venom had gotten into your veins? I can’t even tell if what little did get in there reached your heart yet.” He heaved another sigh. “Dammit. We need to get to the Enterprise. If I had my equipment--”

With great effort, Spock raised his head from the boulder. He lifted the hand of his uninjured arm, but before he could try to speak, he heard McCoy kneel again and place his palm on the back of Spock’s hand. 

“Spock! I can’t wake you outta that trance now. You need to heal! It may be the only thing stopping your heart from givin’ in. Lord help me, but that is the most logical thing we can do right now. I’d rather carry an unconscious Vulcan through this damn rainforest than a dead one.” He paused, hand pressing lightly against Spock’s. “And I’d sooner hit a rock than slap a man with his eyes closed.”

The pacifist CMO would probably balk at hitting an inanimate object as well, Spock thought. He tried to consider the doctor’s levels of pacifism to avoid the tingle of McCoy’s hand against his own. Even then, the pleasing sensation was difficult to ignore, and brought to mind once again _teeth nipping at his finger_ \--

No. _No._ This was hardly the time for such thoughts. He diverted his attention from the memory, and found himself wondering about the state of the bitten finger. He felt cloth around it, a rudimentary bandage, and a dull throbbing that increased once his attention was focused on it.

“You stay here,” McCoy said, taking Spock’s attention from his throbbing finger. “I found a stream nearby. Water’s cold and fresh. Safe. I think.” He chuckled and stood, and Spock imagined him rocking jauntily on his heels with a one shouldered shrug. “Safe for tired and thirsty humans, anyhow. I haven’t experienced any ill effects yet, and it’s been a while since I drank from it.”

Spock felt his brow dip. He shifted against the boulder. That the doctor had wandered away, alone, injured, only to drink from unfamiliar water on an alien planet! He would not have him putting himself in such unnecessary danger, not when his Vulcan physiology was much more hardy than that of a slim human who needed protecting from his own illogical--

“Easy! _Easy_ , Spock! Blast it, stay still!”

Immediately, Spock fell back against the boulder. His head was swimming. His arm had not seized up in spasms, but the slight tremble in his muscles warned that it would do so very soon. Heart pounding, Spock breathed deep and gritted his teeth. The healing trance was trying to complete itself. And combined with whatever effects the venom had on his self control, however indirect, it was prompting emotional fueled thoughts to invade his mind.

If he did not bring himself completely out of the trance, he would only fall deeper into it. McCoy would surely not do it for him. And if he did become unconscious once again, McCoy would be left alone with a slim chance at rescue. There was a greater chance that their captors would find them first.

And as if to prove him correct, the silence around them was broken by the sound of bodies crashing through the brush. The clearing that had served as their brief sanctuary was suddenly filled with cries of triumph and the sounds of heavy, sharp swords slashing at the air.

McCoy cursed, and Spock found himself pulled once again into the doctor’s arms. This time McCoy curled around him, shielding his swaying form as if the body of a CMO could effectively protect against the steel longswords of furious warriors. 

Spock struggled against the trance. He would not leave Leonard to fend for himself.

His eyelids fluttered, and he felt his hands clench, but before he could work to move beyond that, a voice ordered “Seize him!” and McCoy’s cursing presence was suddenly gone.

What felt like a boot replaced the warmth of McCoy against his shoulder, and he was shoved to the ground on his side. He collapsed, his injured arm pinned between his own weight and the moist forest floor, and once again his muscles shook with painful spasms.

“Stop! Dammit, you’re hurting him!”

McCoy’s voice was still nearby, possibly between 1.5 and 2 meters away. If the spasms had not locked Spock’s jaw against the pain, he would have breathed a sigh of relief, and would not have felt shame. The doctor was still alive, for now.

The boot had not left his shoulder. Rather, it reinforced its presence and pressed hard with a great weight behind it.

“Good,” came a low and unfortunately familiar voice. “When the gods feast upon the demon’s flesh, they will delight in his pain.”

Captain Mortin. The leader of their pursuers, and the one who had been ready to cut into their bodies for sacrifice. The boot dug into Spock’s shoulder, twisting him so that his back pressed into the ground. Spock’s arm gave a violent twitch, sending a burst of pain through every arm muscle and spiking up even into his neck.

“Watch!” Mortin bellowed. “He writhes in pain in my presence! He fears the gods through me! He knows what awaits him!”

“He’s injured, you damn fool!” McCoy snapped. “Get your lackeys offa me so I can help him!”

“Be silent!” Mortin snapped back, and his boot left Spock’s shoulder. Spock’s entire body fell flat against the ground, arm still spasming. A ringing sounded in his ears. The trance would have him completely if he did not wake himself immediately. 

“I will not listen to your vile words,” Mortin continued. “You, who spouts insults against men who are above thee! You, who serves a green skinned, demon master that falls before men greater than he!”

Spock heard the stout man walk away from him. The shuffling of feet signaled additional men, though it could not have been the original number of eight, but before he could calculate the number of captors, the sound of metal chains tore his attention away. 

“Bind him,” Mortin ordered, voice faint through the strengthening healing trance. The metal jangled, possibly heavy manacles and a thick chain, and Spock heard McCoy curse and struggle against whoever held him. “We will return him to camp. The beast, however--”

“The hell do you think you’re doing! I have to help him!”

“I think you have helped your master enough,” Mortin said. His heavy footsteps grew closer once again, and Spock forced himself not to tense further. The spasms had begun to subside, and once he was still he would focus on waking completely. 

“ _Master_?” McCoy repeated, voice baffled. “Get those things away from me--what do you mean, _master_? Where in God’s name did you get that from?”

“Do not play coy, creature,” Mortin answered. He was closer this time, perhaps only half a meter away. “My scout observed you as you _cared_ for this beast. Your blue eyes may speak of innocence, but we know what you are, harlot!”

Two point four seconds of silence.

“ _WHAT!?_ ” McCoy’s incredulous voice broke through the trance. Spock’s eyes struggled to open.”Of all the damned ridiculous things to be accused of! I’m a doctor, not a--a _harlot!_ ”

“Lies!” Mortin bellowed. “My scout watched as you lavished your attention upon this demon’s hand! He _witnessed_ the foul action! He was forced to remain stationary so that the gods could see through his eyes!”

“Oh, forced, was he?” McCoy snapped. “Your holy scout sounds like a peepin’ Tom to me--get those things offa me, you can’t keep a doctor from helpin’ his patient!”

The jangle of the metal cuffs sounded again, and this time McCoy seemed to be putting up a greater struggle. 

“Stay away from him! _Spock!_ ”

A thick hand suddenly clamped itself around Spock’s jaw. He was lifted partially off the ground, but the pain he should feel was muted with the trance that threatened to take him under. 

“The flying gods will not have your green flesh,” Mortin growled. “Instead, I will gut you here, demon, and you will _die_ here, alone. And thine corpse?” The hand tightened, cutting off Spock’s breath, sending him deeper into recess of the trance. “The slithering gods will _devour_ it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually gonna be longer, but I decided to split it into two chapters, so the next one shouldn't be too far behind. Thanks for reading!


End file.
